


In Collision

by boopboop



Series: Falling into motion [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Blood and Injury, Chris is in over his head, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Off Screen Violence, escort!Sebastian, mob!Chris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 08:39:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14493102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boopboop/pseuds/boopboop
Summary: Chris has spent entirely one weekend with Sebastian. One weekend, now almost a month ago, in which they did little more than eat pizza and watch movies and absolutely did not do what was previously planned. Either Sebastian lied about the night, or no explicit details were asked, and talks between their two sides have continued relatively smoothly and in no way does it explain why, at assfuck o’clock in the morning, Sebastian is standing in their nice, respectable converted warehouse, barefoot, wrapped in a large, ill fitting leather trench coat, absolutely drenched in blood.





	In Collision

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Amateur Cartography](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2195877) by [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity), [MonstrousRegiment](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstrousRegiment/pseuds/MonstrousRegiment). 



> So this part is only a year overdue!
> 
> *runs and hides*

There’s not a huge number of things that can send thirty hardened members of the Boston mob spiraling into a panic, but when Chris is woken at three am by bangs on the door and a number of loud voices, his brain switches into combat mode and his body coils for a fight. He throws on his boots, takes the stairs three at a time and comes to a skidding, horrified halt as he joins the cluster of gathered hitmen, enforcers and runners. They’ve all fallen silent, a standing ring of bodies that no one seems to dare break, and in the centre, the cause of all the commotion. 

Chris has spent entirely one weekend with Sebastian. One weekend, now almost a month ago, in which they did little more than eat pizza and watch movies and absolutely did not do what was previously planned. Either Sebastian lied about the night, or no explicit details were asked, and talks between their two sides have continued relatively smoothly and in no way does it explain why, at assfuck o’clock in the morning, Sebastian is standing in their nice, respectable converted warehouse, barefoot, wrapped in a large, ill fitting leather trench coat, absolutely  _ drenched _ in blood.

People have escaped gorefest horror films covered in less blood than Sebastian is now and Chris’s brain, by this point usually so uncomfortably experienced with blood, decides it’s a good time to panic. 

“Oh my god, Sebastian?” There’s too many questions racing around his head, starting with:  _ ‘how badly are you hurt? _ ’ It’s followed quickly by: ‘ _ who can I kill for you? _ ’ A hundred other smaller, less desperate questions chase after, but Sebastian doesn’t answer. He looks, now Chris is close enough, somewhere between terrified and traumatized, that hazy blankness of shock draping in a dusty veil over usually sparkling eyes. Of course, if all that blood is  _ his… _

“Sebastian,” he calls out again, the collected breath of a small army held until Sebastian raises his head sluggishly towards the sound of Chris’s voice, then crumples, strings cut and strength gone. 

Chris reaches him in time because Chris is moving before Sebastian even falls, and holding him this time is nothing like the last. Just touching Sebastian leaves Chris sticky with blood and god, he’d take the wary, fractured look of their last meeting over the frightening slackness of unconsciousness. 

The trained, hardened part of Chris’s heart takes over. “Out!” he barks, sending the gathered soldiers scattering like scolded children. “Dom, get Karl up here. Now. Tell him to expect the worst, and bring me what supplies we have here.”

They handle these kinds of things internally and don’t skimp when it comes to stocking up on the necessary drugs and bandages needed to treat the various fights and beatings that occur on a near daily basis. Here, in a foreign city, they are both more and less cautious. Less daily need for a doctor; more paranoia for necessity. Now, Chris is glad of it, and in the time it takes him to carry Sebastian upstairs to the apartment, Dom has carried out all his orders with the quiet seriousness of someone who knows when and how to drop the playfulness he usually radiates.

It leaves Chris free to worry about the important things. Things like Sebastian, who doesn’t stir once in the time it takes carry him over to the bed and settle him down against sheets that are still warm from Chris’s body. 

“How bad?” Dom asks. Dom, free from the personal attachment to Sebastian that Chris has, is already working damage control. Sebastian isn’t some random stranger wandering wounded into their midsts. He’s heir to the city’s ruling family. If he dies here, hell, if he’s even found here, bloody and in Chris’s bed, it won’t matter that they weren’t the ones to hurt him. Retaliation will come swiftly, and as Siobhan’s Captain, Chris will be forced to respond. It’ll almost certainly mean war.

There’s a lot at stake politically, but Chris can’t focus on anything outside of Sebastian’s pale form. 

“Get me some wet cloths,” he ignores the question and focuses on what is necessary. 

Gently, he opens the leather coat. 

“Jesus,” Dom says, panting slightly as he returns to the bed with several towels and a bowl of lukewarm water. “That’s a lot of fucking blood.”

“Hmm,” Chris responds. He presses his fingers to Sebastian’s throat, feeling for a pulse. It’s there, and stronger than he’s expecting it to be. “I don’t...I don’t think it’s all his.” There’s too much of it. It’s caked in his hair, in his eyelashes, all over his body. Aside from the fact that Chris can’t see any visible wounds, it’s unlikely Sebastian would survive losing  _ that _ much blood.

“What should I do?” 

Chris scans his eyes over Sebastian’s body. “Cover him up,” he says, moving slightly so Dom can lay one of the towels over Sebastian, trying belatedly to preserve his modesty. 

“Do we, shit, do we call the Romanians?”

“And say what?” Chris asks. “They show up here while he’s still unconscious and they’ll shoot first, ask questions later.”

“Maybe they did this to him?” Dom whispers. He looks horrified, but then he’s heard the stories. They all have. They aren’t any worse than some of the things they’ve done themselves, but it always sounds more frightening when it’s coming from a potential enemy. 

The thought has even crossed Chris’s mind. His anxiety, still quietly ticking along in the back of his head, helpfully reminds him that he turned Sebastian down, refused Marcus’s gift, and maybe this is punishment, for Sebastian, for him…

But that was weeks ago. That window has been and gone and Sebastian is far too valuable to treat so brutally. No, if anything, this was one of Sebastian’s assignments. Someone who, like Chris, is given an underworld prince for a plaything. Someone, unlike Chris, who takes him up on the offer. 

And there’s still nothing to explain why Sebastian came here, of all places. 

The apartment door opens and their doctor storms into the room, a thundercloud woken from slumber and none too happy about it. Karl is an angry, irritable bastard on a good day. In the middle of the night when he’s summoned to fix their dirty work, he’s down right mean. 

He’s a good doctor though, and gentle, when not scolding them for getting their dumb asses shot or stabbed or impaled with a fucking pool cue. He’ll be careful with Sebastian.

The moment Karl’s eyes land on his new patient, lightening lashes out in Chris’s direction. “Get out,” he snaps. “Both of you.”

Both Dom and Chris protest. Chris, who is covered in almost as much blood as Sebastian now, finally agrees if he’s allowed to shower in the attached bathroom. 

“I’ll go work damage control,” Dom says. 

Chris nods, feeling some of the blood that’s drying on his neck flake and start to itch. “No one can know he’s here. Not yet.”

Dom nods, and leaves. Chris hesitates, and stays, until Karl looks up from Sebastian and practically shoots flames out of his eyes. “If you’re still here in five seconds I’m going to castrate you. Slowly.”   
  


* * *

 

 

Karl is still busy when Chris emerges, too preoccupied with his patient to shoo anyone away. Chris uses the chance to lurk and worry and wonder: is this my fault? He’s back to that - never really stepped away from it - and it all circles down to the idea that by saying ‘no’, he’s upset some kind of fucked up cosmic balance. He hates it. He hates everything about it. And he hates the people who did this. 

It’s nearly five am before Karl moves, looking tired and furious and ready to fight. “Well? Where’s the body?”

Chris blinks. “What?” 

“This,” Karl snarls, voice low and disgust in his eyes, “was never what was agreed. I stitch you bastards up when you beat the shit out of each other and I pay off my debt. That’s it. That’s all. If you think I’m here to facilitate some kind of fucked up prostitution ring, you can tell Siobhan she can take what I owe her and shove it up her-”

Chris starts to shake his head rapidly. “Jesus, Karl, you think we did this to him?”

“I think,” Karl snaps, “that someone put their hands around that kid’s neck and applied so much pressure there is  petechiae in both his eyes.”

“And the blood?” Chris asks, battling off a wave of images that file through his brain in a slow, orderly fashion, each high definition technicolour. 

Karl’s lip curls, but some of the hostility eases from his shoulders. “Not his. He’s got a number of  subcutaneous hematomas, but that bloodbath he took? Not his.”

Some of the more vivid images fade in his mind. Chris lets out a breath and closes his eyes to gather his thoughts. “Subcuta-”

“Bruises,” Karl huffs. “He’s going to be damn sore for a couple of weeks at least. Someone needs to stay with him for the next twenty four hours. He should really be in a hospital, but…” he trails off in the face of Chris’s expression and scowls furiously. “Monitor his breathing. If it sounds like he’s struggling, you need to call an ambulance, to hell with your fucking rules. That kind of damage can cause swelling, abscess… he might need surgery.” 

Chris has to hold a hand to his mouth to ward of the nausea. “Jesus,” he whispers, anguished. 

Maybe sensing that he’s taking his anger out on the wrong target, Karl softens by degrees. “I said might. He’s holding steady at the moment. When he wakes up, try get him to drink some water and keep the chit chat to a minimum.”

Chris nods earnestly. He can do that. He says so. Karl’s expression curdles. 

“This gonna cause us problems?”

“Nothing for you to worry about if it does,” Chris says, trying to draw a line that Karl doesn’t have to get dragged across. 

It works about as well as most of his attempts at protection. Karl snorts. “It’s not nothing if you get your dumbass self shot. Again.” There’s an olive branch offered in familiar gruffness and it goes some way to settling the nausea rolling in Chris’s stomach. He knows he’s crossed too many lines, that he’s done things he would never imagine himself capable of and that would break his mom’s heart. He doesn’t like what it says about the person he’s become that Karl could look at Sebastian and think Chris responsible. 

He bids the doctor goodbye with a clasp of the shoulder and a tired grin, then takes a seat on the edge of the bed and drops his head into his hands. 

Siobhan will want to know about this. About Sebastian. About what happened to him. And why Chris was the one he came to for help.

Chris doesn’t even know that. He’s hardly a man who radiates safety, not when violence is so ingrained in his life that he’s the type of guy who dons a fucking gun holster over his pajamas. 

A small part of his brain, the part that’s learned to anticipate betrayal and blood in just about everything he gets involved with, says this is a trap. Negotiations have been going well - too well - and this is a ruse to knock him off balance, or compromise him in some way. Even if Sebastian and his family aren’t involved, there’s always the possibility of a third party being to blame. Who’s to say that someone else didn’t just drop Sebastian here before making a get away?

Paranoia is exhausting. He looks up the bed to where Sebastian is peacefully resting, and says as much. 

“I don’t know how you got here, or why. But I’m not going to let you down.” No matter the hows or the whys or the whos, Sebastian is Chris’s responsibility right now. Any threat to him is a direct attack against Chris’s authority; even Siobhan will agree on that. That gives him some room to work with. Under that guise, Chris can protect him with lethal force. 

Once upon a time, murder would have been a last, horrified thought. 

Now, it’s pretty much a standard Plan B.

 

* * *

 

The arrival of a semi-naked, bloody Romanian prince goes down better than the arrival of his angry, slightly soggy bodyguard, and the circle that has formed this time is one of open hostility. Chris doesn’t know what it says about Sebastian that his boys have filled him firmly under ‘non-threatening’ instead of the bodyguard, especially when Sebastian is more likely to get one or more of them killed. 

Tired with heartbroken anger, Chris is quick to dismiss the assembly and equally as reluctant to allow the towering menace anywhere near Sebastian, who is sleeping and vulnerable, and who was just fucking…

Chris takes a breath, releases it. Then heads to the bar and pours himself a whiskey. 

“Where,” the menace says slowly, threat visible in every line of his body. Chris idly wonders who would win in a fight, him or the bodyguard? “Is he?”

Any concern that this man might be in some way responsible for Sebastian’s condition are shoved aside. Professional integrity is holding him together, but any patience is at its limit. Chris thinks of the leather jacket that Sebastian arrived in and imagines the bodyguard’s broad shoulders filing it better than Sebastian did. There’s a care of duty in that, maybe even affection. 

“Ground rules,” Chris says pleasantly, taking one slow sip, then another. “Right now he’s sleeping, and you’re not about to disturb that.” When protest starts to form, he holds up the half full glass and glares. “This is not your territory, it’s mine. You’re here as a guest, and so is he. I won’t have you upsetting him.”

Surprise overtakes anger. The closer Chris looks at him, the worse Sebastian’s bodyguard looks. Not injured, not like Sebastian, but tired and heartsore and probably in need of a good drink. Remembering his manners, and more importantly, remembering the rules of engagement when it comes to hospitality, Chris pours the man a glass and slides it across the bar. “He passed out shortly after he arrived,” Chris says. “I had my doctor look him over. He’s…” he wonders how much the man knows. How much he saw. “The blood wasn’t his. Mostly.”

“No,” Sebastian’s professional menace says slowly. 

Christ, it’s like trying to get blood from a stone. “You responsible?”

“No.”

No. Just no. Nothing else. 

Chris takes a breath. There’s multiple avenues this could go down. Most of them involve the two of them glaring at each other, drinking, more glaring, and then maybe pulling their dicks out to see who’s bigger. 

Chris tries another tactic. “He came to me,” he says.

“Yes.” Still one word, but with a noticeable deflation of posture. Chris isn’t sure if that’s wounded pride, or something more personal. Either way, he thinks Sebastian will be upset if Chris starts a fight with his bodyguard. 

He holds out a hand. “Let’s try this again. Chris Evans, pleased to meet you.”

There’s a good thirty seconds where his hand is stared at like it’s a live grenade, then it’s grasped by strong, deeply calloused hands. “Nikolaj.” 

“Just Nikolaj?”

A twitch. Not a smile, but something amused. “Just Nikolaj.”

Much like Sebastian is just Sebastian. Marcus is only Marcus. “Do Romanians even have last names?” It’s a dumb thing to say and his attempt at finding some levity is met with incredulous eyebrows and a muttering of something no doubt unflattering. It’s followed by a stony glare as Nikolaj throws back the drink Chris poured him and sets the empty glass pointedly on the bar. 

“Where is he?”

They’ve exchanged pleasantries and drinks. Chris’s authority has been asserted. He stands, and Nikolaj follows. 

They pass Dom on the stairs. Chris’s second isn’t subtle, his expression more than making it clear what he thinks of Nikolaj. 

Inside the apartment, Nikolaj makes a menacing dash to the side of the bed and - there’s only one word Chris can use to describe it, even when applied to the likes of Nikolaj -  _ frets.  _ Chris hangs back and watches, building a mental picture in his head. Nikolaj didn’t do this to Sebastian. Nikolaj, Chris thinks, loves Sebastian.

Which leaves him back at square _haven’t-got-a-fucking-clue_ one.

Dom brings them both coffee. When it becomes clear that Nikolaj doesn’t intend to drink made out of his line of sight, Chris drinks both cups, then cancels his morning briefing. Dom can handle things without him. They’re on a three day hiatus from negotiations in respect of tradition, which gives Chris some time to figure out how he’s going to look Sebastian’s father in the eye next time they’re in a room together. It’s already enough that the guy thinks he’s done unspeakable things with his son - and seems to condone it - to make it hard not to spontaneously combust of mortification. This is a whole new level. 

“I’m taking him home,” Nikolaj says suddenly. 

That’s the best thing, really. Get Sebastian off their turf. Let him be someone else’s problem.

Naturally, Chris bolts to his feet and growls, “Not a fucking chance.”

That thought, that question as to who would win a fight between the two of them, becomes an almost thing. Nikolaj manages to make no change in facial expression and still convey his desire to break both of Chris’ kneecaps. It’s impressive, but Chris isn’t intimidated. That’s quite literally been beaten out of him over the years.

“I’m not asking.” Out of respect for Sebastian, Nikolaj hasn’t shot Chris yet. That same respect stays Chris’ hand, if not his tongue.

“He came to me,” Chris growls, “of his own free will. Now either you dropped the ball and let this happen, or you stood outside and  _ listened _ to it, but until he wakes up and tells me he wants to leave, I don’t trust you to protect him.”

Nikolaj swears furiously in Romanian, then glances down at Sebastian before sighing. He’s saved from further choice when Sebastian’s eyes open slowly and he tries to inhale deeper than his injured throat will allow. 

“ _ Atent, atent _ ,” Nikolaj says softly, one hand under Sebastian’s elbow, holding him in a half seated position as he coughs violently. “ _ Esti siguranta.” _

Feeling useless, Chris bolts to the bathroom and pours a glass of water. Bolting back to the bedside, he holds it out like an offering, gaping hopelessly and generally being a waste of space as he watches Sebastian lean into the support of his bodyguard and struggle to control his breathing. 

Eventually the coughing dies down enough for Nikolaj to help him drink the water. It’s then, three small, tentative sips in, that Sebastian sees Chris. 

Just seeing him awake and somewhat coherent is enough to settle the nerves of Chris’ heart and he holds up a hand in an awkward wave. “Hi,” he says, then contemplates diving head first out the window. 

It takes Sebastian three separate attempts to say Chris’ name. 

“ _ Tăcut, _ ” Nikolaj says, sounding a lot harsher than Chris imagines he means to. He watches Sebastian recoil, watches the flicker of disgust in Nikolaj’s eyes, and wonders if the two of them have a clue what the other thinks of them. 

“How’re you feeling?” Chris asks.

“Don’t answer that,” Nikolaj says to Sebastian. “Rest your voice.”

Sebastian glares balefully and Chris’ heart soares. “Okay?” he croaks.

Nikolaj turns his eyes to the heavens and grumbles under his breath, an abject display of parental frustration. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small tin of pills. Tipping two into the palm of his hand, he glares at Sebastian until be accepts them. Swallowing them is clearly unpleasant, but Sebastian makes no complaint, and drinks the rest of the water down with only some mild grumbling from Nikolaj. 

Chris hasn’t immediately demanded to know what happened.

Chris is clearly the fucking best at being a mature adult.

Nikolaj’s next question to Sebastian is said too softly for Chris to hear.

“ _ Stai aici _ ,” Sebastian mumbles, already sinking back into the pillows, his eyes closing. “ _ Vă rog _ .”

Nikolaj bows his head. “ _ Alteţă _ .”

“Is there maybe a translation thing we can do here?” Chris asks, “Cos I don’t think my spelling is good enough to google all that.”

Nikolaj stands. “He wants to stay,” he says. Then, for a second equal parts furious and resigned, inclines his head to Chris and with stiff formality, says, “I ask for a continuation of your hospitality, at least until he is more coherent.”

His jaw on the floor, it takes Chris a second to answer. “Shit, of course. Stay as long as you need.”

“It’s not that simple, Christopher. You should know that by now.”

Nikolaj is, of course, correct. 

Chris cringes. “Siobhan’s gonna kill me.”

“If Sebastian’s father doesn’t get there first,” Nikolaj agrees. “After he’s done with me.”

“So we’re both fucked,” Chris summises. “Want another drink?”

He ends up fetching the rest of the bottle and returns to the appartment to find Nikolaj on the phone. 

“ _ Aștepta,”  _ Nikolaj hands him the phone and takes a respectful step back. There’s a complicated political hierarchy to balance between them, and in truth even Chris isn’t sure how they stack up. In terms of territory and rank, Chris has the home turf, and the higher status, but Sebastian outranks all of them by merit of birth, if not title. As his chief bodyguard, that puts Nikolaj in a position to challenge Chris’s authority, at least in matters related to Sebastian’s safety. 

Every time Chris thinks he’s been doing this for too long - and really, it’s only been five years - he manages to find a way of feeling like a novice all over again. 

“My Evans,” the voice on the phone says, “thank you for your time. My name is  Constantin.” He runs through the rolodex of names and faces Siobhan has forced him to commit to memory. Constantin  Ungurianu. Constantin the Hungarian. The man, rumor has it, who carries out the more gruesome of Marcus’s orders. More Sebastian’s size than Chris’s, quiet, calm, polite, and sociopathically skilled at inflicting torture on anyone stupid enough to push Marcus over the line. A few years back, when Chris was still a foot soldier and curious enough to dig his nose into gossip, he remembers hearing about two high profile pedophiles who had come to Siobhan for protection. She’d had them sent away with a handful of broken fingers each. They then went south and figured the Eastern Europeans would be more inclined to turn a blind eye to their crimes if the money was good enough. Constantin, rumor has it, removed their skin in strips and had them mailed to their victims families in a macabre token of consideration.  And now he’s talking to Chris.

“What can I do for you?” Alarm bells are blaring in his head, but he’s experienced enough now to not let that sound in his voice. 

“I’d like to express our gratitude for your assistance in this morning’s… incident. We appreciate that your time is valuable, and would like to compensate you for any distress or disruption caused.”

Oh, here we go. The bartering. Chris helped Sebastian, so now the Romanians are in his debt. Better to ‘compensate’ him and relegate what happened to a business transaction than something Chris might hold over them later. It’s sickening. 

That said… 

“Sebastian,” Chris says, “should be well enough to leave later this evening.” Whether he wants to go is a seperate issue.

“We’re most pleased to hear that,” Constantin says. Emotions are dangerous things for men like them to admit to, but Chris thinks Constantin sounds genuine. 

“When’s his next… assignment?” The word tastes bitter in his mouth. Opposite, Nikolaj’s expression could shatter glass. 

“That isn’t-”

“You asked how you can compensate me,” Chris just interrupted a known serial killer, oh god, his mom’s gonna get his head in a box… “that’s what I want.”

There’s a moment of deathly silence, then. “May I please speak with Nikolaj?”

Chris thrusts the phone at the bodyguard and shrugs at his nonplussed blink. Whatever the conversation that follows, it’s all in Romanian, so Chris understands a grand total of two words. Fortunately, they are the only two words that Nikolaj grunts. Between them, he looks Chris up and down in unmasked judgement.

Then he hands Chris back the phone. 

“We agree to your terms,” Constantin says with mild politeness. “It is Thursday. We are due to meet again on Monday. I trust that will be suitable compensation.”

Four days. Four days for Sebastian to recover in peace. 

Four days for Chris to try and figure out what happened. 

Four days to perfect his poker face. 

“That,” Chris channels every part of him he hates into sounding like the professional he is supposed to be, “is acceptable.” 

He hands the phone back to Nikolaj and sinks into the chair beside the bed. 

Siobhan is definitely going to kill him. 

  
  
  



End file.
